


A Toast to Bread, For Without Bread There Would Be No Toast

by jacketwithpatches



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Safehouses, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), jmart, jonmartin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27773875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacketwithpatches/pseuds/jacketwithpatches
Summary: Jon teaches Martin to cook breakfast in the safehouse!
Relationships: Also Martin Blackwood/Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	A Toast to Bread, For Without Bread There Would Be No Toast

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: mentioned neglect/abuse (nothing that is outside of canon for Martin Blackwood)  
> Word count: 1408

"Martin-?" 

The Archivist's panicked voice cut through the still air that was every morning in the Scottish cabin. There was a curtain drawn over the window, but even so, it was easy to tell that the sun hadn't risen yet. There was the sound of Jon's rapid breathing and the faint ticking of a clock from the other room. For just a moment, at least, there were only those sounds. Then there was the shuffling and yawning gasps of someone waking up to their name. 

"Jon?" Martin rubbed his eyes open, searching the dark for his lover. 

"Martin, thank god-" Jon sputtered out. "i'm sorry, I just- I had to...make sure you were still here." 

Martin's eyebrows knit themselves together in a soft worry.   
"Yeah, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, 'kay?" 

"Promise?" Jon wrapped his two hands around one of Martin's, silently begging for more touch. More proof that the man next to him was real, corporeal, that neither of them were alone again.

"I promise." Martin assured him, worming his thumb onto the outside of Jon's hand and rubbing a small circle onto it. "C'mere."   
He shifted forwards a bit, allowing Jon a moment to roll over into him and face the other direction. No more worrying about how far the sun was from the horizon, they both watched the door in silence. Martin wrapped one arm around Jon and let the other comb idly through his hair.  
"Your hair is so pretty." He gushed quietly. 

"Mm." Jon mumbled. "Never got around to having it trimmed after- after Jane, I liked it better long, I think." 

"I like it long, too. It frames your face nicely, I think." The Lover replied. 

"Martin?" 

"Yes?" 

"Tell me something only Martin would know? Please?" Jon asked, his voice shaking and threatening to break. He curled into himself, cautiously clinging to Martin's arm. 

"Oh, pshh," Martin sighed in thought for a moment. "Oh! I know! Martin Blackwood, that's me, doesn't know how to cook." 

Jon turned over again, his eyes having adjusted to the level of light in the room. He looked into Martin's eyes, tracing for any level of untruth and finding none.   
"You don't?"   
  
"Why do you think I've been making us...toast with figs and brie cheese every opportunity I get to prep us anything?" He laughed halfheartedly. 

"I wasn't going to say anything, I know you have some texture things with food and all-" Jon said, shifting his hand up to rest on Martin's face. 

"Oh- Oh, I mean, I _do,_ but that's...well, toast with figs and cheese is all I know how to make." Martin said sheepishly. "It was what my mum liked?"   
He gave a shaky sigh. 

"Don't make yourself." The Archivist said softly. "Talk about it, I mean. Not unless you don't want to." 

"No, no, I think I do want to." Martin assured him. "It's just...weird to remember, I guess. At the time it felt so trivial. Well, not when dad left, but on normal days when it was just...school, oolong, toast, more oolong, bed. At my best, I never thought anything of it, and now I'm thirty and I can't do anything other than make tea and that damned toast dish." 

Jon remained silent for a moment.   
"...I could teach you." He said finally. "If you wanted, that is. I could teach you how to cook. I'm certainly not a master at it, not by any means, but I know some things off the top of my head." 

Martin nuzzled in closer to Jon.   
"Thought you could know anything off the top of your head if you tried hard enough." 

"Oh, ha ha," Jon scoffed and rolled his eyes. Martin had learned that when he didn't have the energy to laugh, he would resort to that habitual snarky facade. It was the same way he'd say, 'I trust you,' instead of, 'I love you.' Jon communicated differently, and Martin had adapted. It's crazy what you do for a friend. For a lover. 

A moment of silence filled the air.   
  
"I'd love to learn how to cook, though." Martin said. "Really." 

Jon smiled.   
"I don't know that I'm getting back to sleep tonight." He said. "I'm...I'm sorry about that." 

"No, shh, it's okay." Martin shushed him, pulling him closer and stroking his hair gently. "You know I'm happy to be here for you, right?" 

"What if you're not." Jon replied, more as a statement than as a question. 

"I will be." Martin said. "I promised, remember? Just a minute ago. I'm not leaving again." 

Jon pressed his forehead to Martin's and held his face.   
"Alright. I trust you." He whispered. 

Martin grinned and tilted his head up to press a kiss onto Jon's forehead.   
"I'm glad that you do." He replied. 

Jon leaned into the kiss.   
"What do you want for breakfast, then?" 

"Me? Oh, uh-" Martin fumbled blankly. "I- I don't know," 

Jon chuckled softly.   
"If you're not sick of bread, we could do French toast. It's easy enough to pick up." 

"Sounds like fun!" Martin said enthusiastically. "If you have the energy?" 

Jon pulled himself up and stretched out, the sleeves of Martin's borrowed jumper slipping down his arms. He yawned for a moment.   
"I'm awake, yes." 

Martin ignored the fact that Jon's answer was not the answer to the question he had asked and followed suit, sitting himself up next to him. Jon pounced on the opportunity to lean into him, resting his head on The Lover's shoulder. Martin gave a laugh. 

"Awake, sure." He teased. "I buy it." 

Jon scrunched his face at the strawberry blond, who simply laughed again. 

"On a serious note, Jon, are you going to be okay?" 

"Yes, Martin, I'm fine." Jon smiled. "Let's go make breakfast, shall we?" 

Martin slid off the bed and pulled a pair of probably dirty pants on from the floor, mentally noting to himself to do the laundry later as he trailed after Jon into the kitchen. 

"Milk, eggs, cinnamon," Jon mumbled. "Allergic to anything, are you?" 

"Nutmeg, actually." Martin said. 

"Really?" Jon glanced back at Martin. 

"Yeah! I'm allergic to nutmeg, that's why we couldn't have, like, oriental type teas around. I'd swell up." 

"Well. I didn't know that." Jon hummed, rummaging through a cabinet.   
"Hrngh. Daisy really _was_ one to keep spices around." He said added sarcastically. "Cinnamon, erm- Oh! Good news, Martin, we're not all doomed. There's a likely outdated tin of ground cloves!" 

Martin giggled.   
"I don't think spices can expire, Jon." 

"I think _everything_ in this place is several years past expiration." He retorted playfully, pulling a bowl out of a cabinet under the sink and lighting the stove. "Right, so it's really not super hard. You know how to crack an egg?" 

Martin nodded dutifully. 

"That's all you really have to do, then. Three into the bowl, add a splash of milk, and then sprinkle in spices to taste." Jon instructed, hopping onto the counter and crossing his legs. 

Martin cracked the three eggs against the side of the bowl, glancing to Jon for approval each time he did so. Jon simply smiled down on him fondly. The Lover opened the carton of milk and made a cautious tip with it, hardly a tablespoon landing in the bowl with the eggs. 

"You can add a little more," Jon encouraged. "Don't be afraid of overdoing it, worst case we add another egg and there's leftover's for us to heat up tomorrow." 

Martin smiled and cheerily tipped a little more milk in, then popped open the tin of cinnamon and started to sprinkle it over the mix. Jon reached for the cloves and added some as well, then nudged a drawer open and leaned over to pull out a fork.

"Just whisk it all together." He instructed, hopping off the counter to cut pieces off of a loaf of bread. 

Minutes later, a plate of hot French toast sat on the counter. Jon took the liberty of flicking freshly made whipped cream onto it, ("I'll teach you that one another day") followed by a drizzle of syrup. Martin positively beamed, Jon sitting on the counter again and looking down on him with tender pride.

"Thank you, Jon." Martin mumbled. 

"You alright?" Jon raised an eyebrow. Martin leaned into the counter and pulled Jon into a hug, burying his face in Jon's neck. 

"I like it here." He said. "With you. 

"I love you, Martin." 

"I love you too, Jon." 


End file.
